Wrongness

Man. Two blog posts in two days. I can hear the tl;dr snipers emerging from the bushes. DIE, YOU VERBOSE MANIAC, DIE.

And... as I throw molotov cocktails back at 'em, I freely admit the obvious.

I'm a voracious writer.

Savage.

Brutal.

My victims die painful, torturous deaths, driven insane by the constant flow of short pithy sentences. My style is a mix between porcupine petting and dinosaur dunking (and atrocious alliteration).

It's a raw world. Dog eat dog. Whether you think of gladiators in the Circus Maximus or contestants in a government-sponsored death match, the parallels are obvious.

What kind of rhetoric carries the day? Shock and awe. The vulgar and obscene. The demonic and obsessed.

What's a Christian writer to do? Start the textual equivalent of the 700 Club?

No. Fortunately, sane alternatives are available, and none of them involve telethons.

Sacred writers have more than a few avant-garde tricks up their sleeve. Assuming they have sleeves. Tanktop aficionados have a steeper hill to climb. Bare-chested writers have other problems, including the risk of blinding their readers with spontaneous whiteness (Earth to males above the 45th parallel. Never take your shirt off.)

I digress.

The trick of many a good writer is the art of... wrongness.

It's like that abstract painting that drives you bananas, yet you can't take your eyes off of it. It's like that weird relative who insists on the multi-hued mohawk. Things that burn your brain.

It's like that with words. Use them well, and people won't be able to concentrate on anything else.

One word of warning. Take this too far and you'll echo in people's minds like that bad car salesman with the tweed jacket and beady eyes.

It's possible to be too witty.

Fortunately, true friends are really handy with super soakers. There's a law about this, the Law of Conservation of Wit (better known as karma in hippie circles). What goes around comes around.

(excuse me, I need to dodge another fusillade of paintball slugs, brb)

PAT-A-PAT-A-PAT-A-PAT-A-PAT-A-PAT

Okaaay. Where were we?

In my defense, there are myriads of modern writers who can push the wit accelerator to the max and get away from the humor cops. However, I always return to one of the old standbys.

Mark Twain, the King of Wrongness (or political incorrectness, depending on who you ask).

With no further ado. The Master...

I thoroughly disapprove of duels. If a man should challenge me, I would take him kindly and forgivingly by the hand and lead him to a quiet place and kill him.

I am opposed to millionaires, but it would be dangerous to offer me the position.

Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.

Barring that natural expression of villainy which we all have, the man looked honest enough.

Twain, you make me smile. Even without exclamation marks, screaming caps, or platoons of emoticons. You, sir, are the rock star of sarcastic, deadpan humor.

Until next time,
- Daniel